A Drink Before the War
by karabair
Summary: Like most great bonding experiences, it started with petty theft. Wolverine, Rogue, and Scott. LoganScott, if you squint, not that it takes much squinting.


Title: A Drink Before the War  
Fandom: _X-men_, Movieverse only  
Rating: PG-13  
Description: Because all great bonding experiences start with petty theft. Pre-_X3_ (Could just as easily be post-_X2_; vague foreshadowing, but no _X3_ spoilers).  
Characters: Logan, Rogue, Scott; Logan/Scott if you squint (not that L/S ever requires much squinting).

_A Drink Before the War_

Logan twirls the bottle of Islay single malt against the table in the kitchen at Xavier's school. He knocks the neck one way, catches it just before it tilts over, then steadies it and starts to shuffle the glasses in a circle. It's a maneuver that might make a different kind of mutant nervous -- the Scotch is very expensive -- but Logan worked behind various bars for years before he figured out he could make more money fighting in them. In a situation like this, he knows exactly how far to trust his own reflexes. Besides, it's not like the bottle cost _him_ a dime.

His senses are good enough, too, that he picks up the footfalls, and the newcomer's scent, early enough that the voice doesn't startle him. "I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to be doing that here."

Not the voice he's been waiting for, but he isn't sorry. "Right, kid," Logan answers, "and I'm pretty sure you're supposed to be in bed."

"Am I?" she answers, with that accent that always makes it sound as though she has gotten her vowels mixed up. Rogue takes a chair across from Logan, moving with the surprising boldness that always makes him think of reaching out to touch a flower and discovering it's made of steel. (He always thinks in terms of metal, of course; very rarely of flowers; and with Rogue, there's no question of touching at all). "I guess neither one of us was ever any good at 'supposed to.'"

Something else she still holds onto, with the accent -- the conviction that they are two of a kind, an idea that seems completely ridiculous as long as he doesn't stop to think about it. He's not especially in the mood for thinking, at the moment, so he goes for charm instead. Lifting an eyebrow, he says, "Tramps like us, hmm?"

Rogue, not tuned for his sarcasm, just nods, and reaches out to touch the bottle. "Is that whiskey?"

"You bet," he says, and adds, "The good stuff. Expensive."

It ought to occur to the kid to question Logan owning anything expensive, but instead she's musing, "My grandaddy used to drink -- what's the name? Maker's Mark. Just a little. He said it was for medicinal purposes. And Mama used to grumble about how he always needed his medicine, every night after dinner." She smiles now, a measured sort of happiness that is the only kind she seems to know, and Logan wonders, not for the first time, if she can really be as young as he knows that she is. "I didn't mind though," she goes on, "because after he'd had his drink, I would climb in his lap, and there was this smell, and it kind of went with him. And after he died, the bottle just stayed there in the cabinet, and then one day me and Richie. . ." Her voice fades, and Logan wonders if this is the boy she's mentioned before, the one she paralyzed with a kiss. She raises a hand to the white streak in her hair, brushes it aside, and speaks quickly. "Anyway, I've drank whiskey before." She puts her hand around the glass and holds it out to him. He looks at her eyes and she seems so serious that he forces himself to hold back a smile. "I'm eighteen, you know."

_Like I haven't heard that before_, Logan thinks, but there's no way he'll say it, and instead he lifts the bottle and unscrews the top. "You don't have to talk me into it. I'm not your babysitter."

He pours two fingers for her and stops. She scowls at him, but he pulls the bottle back. "Try it first."

She tosses her hair back, which she must think is an elegant, grown-up gesture, and raises the glass --

"Marie --" he starts to caution.

But she has already tilted back the glass and is trying to chug the whole thing in one gulp. Seconds later, most of the liquid is sprayed over the table, and Rogue is staggering around the table with a hand on her throat. "God! Holy -- shit -- fuck!"

He knows he shouldn't laugh, but the torrent of language from this usually well-mannered girl is too much, and he tries to look like he's coughing into his hand.

She isn't fooled for a second and, standing straight, she smooths down her nightdress and musters all her dignity. "I think there was something wrong with it." Then she catches his eye, and starts to laugh, giving Logan permission to laugh in return, and a moment later they are both seated and doubled over. When Rogue manages to gather her compusure again, she sighs, "I guess I wasn't supposed to drink it like that."

Logan shakes his head no, still wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.

"Well, I don't see why people would spend so much money on something that nasty."

"It's an acquired taste," Logan answers, then admits. "I'm more a beer or tequila man, myself."

Her brow knits into a frown. "Well then why do you have--?" Then she stops and her eyes widen, looking at something over Logan's shoulder.

At exactly that moment, Logan's senses kick in. He's been too distracted by Rogue's battle with the Scotch, so only now does he register the footfalls and the scent that he should have detected intruding behind him.

"As much as I'd like to say that I'm surprised. . ." comes the new voice.

Logan turns around, doing his best to look innocent -- a practice at which he has very little experience. "Hey, Summers. How'd you like to join us for a drink?"

Scott Summers stalks into the kitchen and reaches out to grip the neck of the bottle.

Logan beats him to it by a second, curling his hand around the base. Neither one of them is ready to tug or let go, so Scott looks down Rogue. "I ought to say I'm not surprised at him. But really -- Marie."

"She's eighteen," Logan cuts in.

"Excellent." Scott still looks at Rogue -- at least as far as Logan tell; he's not sure exactly how Summers' eyes work behind those glasses, but he certainly seems to be avoiding a glance in Logan's direction. "Since you're eighteen -- _Marie_ -- then in three years, if you want a drink of _my_ Scotch, you can ask me."

"Ohh." Rogue purses her lips and rises from the table. "That's all right, really. . .Scott, um, Mr. Summers, that's. . ." She smiles apologetically. "I didn't like it much, anyway."

"That's a relief," Scott says drily.

He finally turns to Logan, who shrugs. "It'll be a long time until she drinks again. Call it aversion therapy." He settles on the words because he figures they sound smart; he's pretty sure he learned them from the Professor, but as he speaks, he's hit with an eerie feeling that they come from another place in his life, a time and place long before Westchester.

He's relieved when Scott heaves a sigh and turns to the girl. "Marie," he says in a sharp voice, "get back to your dorm."

Rogue raises a hand in salute, and says, "Aye aye, Captain," keeping an amused eye on Logan. Faced with that unblinking gaze, she quickly amends. "Yes. . .sir. . .sorry." Marie starts to back away. "I'll just -- go and --"

"Hey. Look -- don't --I didn't mean to be" Scott reaches a hand out, as though to touch her bare shoulder, an instinctive gesture of comfort.

Logan opens his mouth to say, "Don't . . ." just as Marie jumps back.

Scott stops, and raises the hand to his temple. "Marie, I'm sorry. I forgot."

"Hey," she shrugs and, though still visibly rattled, smiles, "at least you can forget. Most people. . ." Her eyes dart between them. "I'll just go now."

She walks out the door and they stand in silence for a moment until Scott says, "You're a bad influence on her."

Logan leans back in the chair and folds his hands behind his head. "I was about to say the same thing."

"She's a model student -- she's not like this except when you're around."

"Maybe because I'm the only one who really knows what she's like."

Scott curls his lip. "Oh, don't. Just don't." His hand closes on the bottle again, but then he lets go to touch the liquid that Rogue spit onto the table. "Aversion therapy? Seriously? What kind of therapy would it take to keep you from going into other people's bedrooms and walking off with their things?"

"Not other people." Logan seizes the moment to grab the bottle and pull it off the table to balance on his his knee. "Just you."

"And I know I shouldn't ask, but why am I so lucky?" Now he seems to be looking down at where Logan is batting the bottle back and forth with both hands.

"I'm not a therapist, Summers," Logan answers, "but I figured this was the best way to make sure you actually came out of that room where you like to sulk."

"So you and I can experience some quality time?" Scott doesn't take his gaze off the bottle, but he slowly lowers himself into a chair. "Because all the best bonding experiences start with a little petty theft?"

"Well, if they don't --" Logan shrugs, and pushes a glass toward Scott, "they should."

Scott lets out a deep sigh. "What do you want from me, Logan?"

"Right now?" He raises the bottle and pours into Scott's glass. "A drink. After that, we'll see."

"All right." Scott raises the glass, and manages a smile that seems faint and little distant, as though it had to fight to the surface from a long way inside of him. "But some things are gonna cost you extra."


End file.
